We Belong
by maryjayne.kojetin
Summary: Follow up piece to We Owned the Night- John and Sherlock attend John's brother's wedding
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock opened his eyes when the sun filtered through the window across from him; he had forgotten to close the blinds the night before. It took him a moment to place the bright wallpaper, the crisp white covers, and why John wasn't lying next to him; mouth slightly agape in a light snore, hand across his stomach, flat on his back as usual. He heard the small cry of a baby across the hall outside his closed door and the hushed tone from its mother came soon after, and then he remembered; he wasn't in Baker Street. He was in the home of Mrs. and Dr. Watson Sr., in John's childhood bed, _but where was John? _Oh right, he was in the office down the hall where Sherlock was meant to sleep until they realized his legs were entirely too long

("_Honestly, I've slept in much more difficult places, and the likelihood I'm even going to sleep is slim at best, so please John, take your bed.")_.

Sherlock pushed the covers back. It was early, but not too early and he could hear life stirring outside the door. Not knowing of John was among them, and not knowing of John would come to retrieve him, Sherlock got out of the bed, stopping for a moment to take his hundredth look at the pictures John had taped to his walls so long ago; mostly John and his mates from school, and entire section dedicated to the girls he had loved and left (or lost), a few magazine clippings that had once caught his fancy, and some photos of he and Harry making various goofy faces; this was a John Sherlock had not known; John before the dark crept into his life, and turned him into the man he was now; the man who put on a brave face to match his military stance, who continued to suffer from a constant, dull ache in his shoulder that more often than not snuck up through his neck and planted a new pain behind the thick bone of his forehead, who still awoke in the middle of the night to make sure Sherlock was really there; the man whom he loved with more force than he thought possible, and who loved him back just as hard.

He opened the door and instinctively wrapped his arms tight around his torso trying to re-create the comfort of his dressing gown, which had been left at home due to John's concern that once Sherlock had it on, he would never take it off. He stepped into the hallway and encountered Harry; her bathrobe haphazardly tied, her hair as wild as her eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock opened his mouth to wish her a good morning, but she began to speak again before his words could make their way out.

"Can you just take Anabel for a minute?"

Sherlock again opened his mouth, this time to protest her request, but before he could even form a semblance of a sound Harry was placing her small daughter into Sherlock's arms, and starting to walk down the hallway toward the staircase.

"Harry, I-"

"I won't be long Sherlock; seems Sam has gotten into a bit of trouble outside."

And then she was gone; down the stairs, and Sherlock was left alone; well, nearly alone. He looked down at the baby in his arms; she was awake and looking back at him. He had no idea what to do. He had never as so much as held a puppy let alone a baby, and now she was starting to wiggle. Sherlock looked down the hall, and saw the office door cracked open just slightly.

"John?" He called in a loud whisper; too afraid to actually move to the door with the baby in his arms.

"John?" He called again a little louder. He didn't get an answer, but he did hear the shuffling of feet.

"John!"

The door flung open and John appeared in the hallway, pajama bottoms hanging at his hips, his hair flat to one side of his head, his shirt, uncharacteristically absent.

"What Sherlock?" he asked, annoyed (nothing new), and then began to laugh after a yawn cleared the fog away from his brain and he saw what was going on.

"Take her." Sherlock said.

"You're doing just fine."

"John, I have _no_ idea what I'm doing."

"I'm glad that you can admit that, but really, you're fine."

John walked closer and bent to kiss his niece on her forehead, and then straightened to kiss Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock practically began to beg when John pulled away from the short kiss, "Please, John."

He looked genuinely terrified, and John reached out to take Anabel into his own arms.

"You have faced criminal masterminds, chased men with guns down alleyways while you, yourself have been completely unarmed, but a 3 month old baby scares you."

John started down the stairs, and Sherlock followed.

"She's so little. And she just stares at me."

John laughed, "Were you expecting her to hold a conversation about War and Peace with you?"

"Of course not."

John placed Anabel in the electric swing sitting in the kitchen. He peered through the curtains on the window above the sink to see his sister and her wife running down his nephew while his parents sipped tea at the table set on the lawn; his brother and the woman who was about to become his wife lost in some conversation. John closed the curtain and ran across the small distance to crash into Sherlock's body, snaking his hands up into his hair.

"Morning." He said.

Sherlock laughed tightly, and wrapped his own arms around John, teasing his finger tips against John's back.

"Good morning." He whispered back.

"Sleep well?"

"Surrounded by pictures of your ex-girlfriends? Slept like an absolute rock."

"Would you have preferred the back breaking sofa I was on?"

Sherlock bent to lightly kiss John, "I would have preferred to be wherever it was you were."

"Yes, well, you know my mother; 44 year old, unmarried son sharing a bed with his boyfriend? Not in her house. I'm still unclear as to whether it's the 'unmarried' or the 'boyfriend' part that bothers her the most."

Sherlock rested his chin on top of John's head, keeping him in a tight embrace, and he felt John relax underneath the heat he was emitting. He always agreed to spend time with John's family when he asked (if 'always agreed' meant after a ridiculous row resulting in one of them storming into the bedroom or out of the flat completely before Sherlock eventually caved under John's threat of withholding sex, despite Sherlock's attempts to hold onto his pride.), but he spent most of that time feeling complete shite. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's presence in John's life John likely would be married to one of the girls from his wall, would have children to play with niece and nephew ,and a successful practice; not sleeping on an old leather couch in his father's office

"Sherlock?"

John's voice and the touch of his hand cupping at Sherlock's chin broke him from his trance.

"Sorry; I was just thinking."

"Well, that's nothing new is it?"

He glanced out the window, this time the large picture window behind Sherlock to see his family now all sitting at the table; nibbling at an assortment of sweets his mother had no doubt procured earlier that morning from the shop down the street. The idyllic scene that they created was beautiful, but, still standing in Sherlock's arms, and breathing in his scent, he felt as if he was the luckiest of them all.

"I know you do." Sherlock said, tightening his grip on John's waist, almost swaying him to a non existent rhythm.

"You know I do what?"

"Love me, of course."

"Ah, of course."

"And you do know that I do too."

"You do too what?"

"Love you, of course."

John placed a small kiss to Sherlock's cotton shoulder, "Of course." He whispered against it.

"Mind if I take the first shower?" Sherlock asked.

"No. I'll make us some coffee."

They let go of each other and John went to the cupboard to take down a pair of mugs, and the jar of instant coffee. Sherlock went back up the stairs, stopping to grab a hold of Anabel's hand before he did, and looking back to see the smile it caused to creep across John's face. Not a smile like the ones he had studied in the photographs up the stairs, but a genuine smile none the less; a smile he had stashed away for his entire life, meant only to be shared with Sherlock.

He came back down the stairs, running a towel over his curls, dressed for the day slightly more casual than his usual attire; a broken in pair of dark jeans (the only pair he owned, and they were not purchased by him, but rather a gift from John), and a forest green button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He heard John still in the kitchen, but he wasn't alone anymore. There was another voice; a female voice that he didn't recognize, and John was laughing comfortably at something she had said; not something he normally did around his family. Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, the towel now draped around his neck. He saw John sitting at the table, his smile curled around the rim of a mug, his shirt still absent (_who was this woman he was letting have visual access to the scar he hid from everyone else?_). He caught sight of her as he came around the table, taking the extra mug of coffee sitting next to John, but looking at the woman who was bringing easy delight to John's face.

Blonde; no trace of any discolored roots, and it didn't shine like tin underneath the harsh overhead light in the kitchen, so it was natural; swept back in a tangled hair tie; she had been out in the wind of the morning for quite some time. Jogging shoes, jogging pants and a bright pink t-shirt; loose fitting, but expensive; a morning run wasn't just a passing fancy for her, but rather a ritual she had committed to some time ago. Divorced; twice. No children of her own, but comfortable with them as evident by how casually she was holding Anabel in her lap while she sipped at her own mug of coffee.

He took his first sip out of the mug.

"Are you done then?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Good. Sherlock this is Claire; Claire this is Sherlock."

"Did he just do that thing to me?" she asked John.

"Yes, I just did _that thing_ to you." Sherlock answered for him, and sat leaned against the island a few feet away from them; he didn't feel like being in close proximity with the two of them.

"Why did you do it in your head?"

"John doesn't always appreciate when I deduce out loud."

"Well, how will I know if you were right then?"

Sherlock smiled smugly, "I'm right."

Claire blushed slightly at the tips of her ears and her nose of all places, "Of course; you are Sherlock Holmes after all."

"Yes, I am."

John turned his head to throw Sherlock a glare that said, _stop being a smug bastard._

Sherlock returned it with a glare of his own saying, _make me. _

"Well, I-" Claire started toward John, sensing the tension rising in the room between the lovers, "I really should be off; I just came by because my mom said you were in town for your brother's wedding, and I couldn't pass up a chance to visit my favorite ex-husband."

Sherlock made an ugly choking sound as the coffee he had just swallowed went the wrong direction in his throat and threatened to come back up. He quickly regained his comosure as Claire's curious eyes gazed over to him; he might have been surprised as hell to hear those words come from her mouth, but he still had an image to project.

Claire, for her part seemed to notice she had made a mistake as she glanced between Sherlock's face of disbelief and John's expression of horror.

"Oh God," she said. "Did he not-?"

John shook his head.

"I just assumed, with him being who he is, or that you had told him. Oh, God." She repeated again, and stood from her chair, Anabel still in her arms.

"No, I never did quite get the chance, or rather the courage to tell him, and he never did figure it out on his own."

"Shit." She exclaimed, and handed Anabel to John. "I am so sorry; I shouldn't have just blurted it out like that. I'll go; I suppose that drink is off tonight then?"

"Don't be silly Claire; I'll call you a little later."

Claire let herself out of the kitchen. Sherlock was quiet, running his thumb against the contrasting temperature difference of the ceramic mug between the space of the coffee he had drank and the suddenly nauseating amount that was left.

"Sherlock, please say something."

But Sherlock didn't know what to say. He was blown away on two different levels; not only had their been a piece of information about John that he was able to keep secret and away from his prying brain, but _there was something John had kept secret from him. _

"I'm going to pop out for a bit; take a stroll through town." Sherlock said, putting his mug down slowly and walking toward the entrance of the kitchen slowly, not wanting to exit through the back door and be met with questions from John's family.

"I've never known you to be the strolling type."

"Yes, well, we're both learning something new about the other today, aren't we?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had his hands shoved in his trouser pockets as he wandered aimlessly through the small town. John was right, Sherlock did not stroll or meander; when he walked it was with a purpose; a destination was always at the other side, but he had no particular place to go this time; he had just needed to get away from John. It was a feeling that he was unfamiliar with. John was so often, perfect; he had never made Sherlock angry about anything; irritated or annoyed, yes, but never angry. He had also never disappointed Sherlock; never seriously anyway, but when those words came out from that woman's mouth and John had confirmed them with the horrified look in his eyes; the ashamed look of being found out, Sherlock was both angry and disappointed with him; so much so that he couldn't have stood there sharing the same oxygen with John for another second.

And Sherlock didn't quite know how to process that; he didn't know how to be unhappy with John.

That only made him angrier.

Then there was the anger that he felt with himself. How the hell had he not known? He had figured everything of general importance about John the moment he laid eyes on him; he even saw more than he could have, because he was actually trying; how did he miss it? But there had been no indication; no tan line, no indentation, no look of failure in the lines on his face aside from the dejected, lost look that belonged only to a soldier once he's served his purpose. In the encompassing years of their friendship there was never any sign, any hint that John had been someone's husband; had taken care of another person probably much in the same way he took care of Sherlock. He had deduced, (and never been corrected) that John hadn't been in a relationship that involved domesticity, and though John was a caregiver by nature and by trade, he had never had the opportunity to be such on a daily basis with the same person, over and over again.

Sherlock thought he had been the first person to have given that to John; it was one of the small pieces of sentiment he had let himself hold onto. Now he had discovered that it was not true. John had taken care of Claire; made her breakfast, washed her laundry, rubbed her feet when they ached after a long day working, held her when she cried. He had loved someone just as much (more?) as he loved him. The realization of this made Sherlock hurt; feel the kind of pain he had spent so many years trying and successfully avoiding until he met John. John, who was supposed to make Sherlock happy and complete the little bit of emptiness he had inside his soul had just managed to chip off a piece of Sherlock's fragile heart.

He had made his way to a small cafe nearly an hour after the beginning of his walk, and heard his stomach rumble; hunger seemed to seep in when he was upset. He pushed open the ornate wooden doors and was met with the enticing smell of fresh bread; he could see it baking in a large oven behind the counter. As he stepped up to take a look at the menu he caught sight of the same blonde hair and ordinary face he had seen earlier in the kitchen. He started to turn on his heels before she saw him, but it was too late; she was already stepping away from behind the counter, putting her clipboard down and shoving the pen that had between her teeth behind her ear.

"Sherlock." She said surprised to see him.

"Just a coincidence; I assure you." He said to her.

"Oh, I'm sure, but since you're here would you like to stay; I can fix you something wonderful for a quick lunch."

"I'd really rather not."

"I suppose so, but would you please? I'd like a chance to talk to you."

Sherlock looked at her for a moment; she had showered and changed into the black pants and thin white shirt since her run and her visit with John. Her hair was still pulled back into a ponytail, but it was tighter and more professional than before. She had a small trace of stress in the creases by her eyes; perhaps it was the situation she was finding herself in or perhaps it was because the bread she had been counting in the case before Sherlock came in wasn't matching what was on the sheet of paper attached to her clipboard. He rolled his eyes at himself, and gave her an answer that he wasn't happy with himself for.

"Yes, alright."

Claire smiled softly and led him to a table near the back of the cafe. Sherlock took the chair nearest the window and waited patiently as she went back into the kitchen. It didn't take her very long to come back wtih a powl of hot soup and a small plate of fresh bread; still steaming from where it had been broken after being taken out of the oven.

"Thank you." He said quietly.

"You're welcome."

She sat down across from him, and nervously twirled at the hair that fell over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry about this morning. I'm no stranger to putting my foot in my mouth, but I really thought that was something you had known."

It's not your fault." Sherlock said, and he realized that he had meant it; it wasn't her fault; it was his. It was John's.

"Still. I feel terrible. I woukdn't want to find out something like that in such a way."

They were quiet for a moment. Sherlock took a bite of the soup after it had cooled a little; it was warm and offered a small comfort that he so desperately needed.

"When were you married?" he asked.

"Oh gosh," she started. She looked beyond Sherlock, out the window as if she could see the past in the street across from them. "I was 21, he was 24; he had finished his medical training and was still doing his training with the army. We hadn't even been together for very long before he asked me; less than a year."

_Less than a year before he married her? It took two years and my death for John to even kiss me. _Sherlock thought as he sat there listening to her and taking small bites of the soup.

"We were young, well, I was young, and I was so in love with him."

"What happened?"

"Like I said, I was young. John wanted a family, wanted to move to the country and open up his own practice out of our home so that he could watch our future children play in the yard. I wanted to stay in London, get a few small dogs and spend time with _him. _I didn't want to raise children and take care of a home. We tried to make it work the best that we could, and when he left for his first tour things were strained. When he came back I already had the divorce papers ready. Leaving him was the hardest thing I've ever done, but I had to; for him."

Sherlock nodded in understanding. Claire had no idea just how much he understood the last words she had spoken. He noted the sad look in her eyes; they didn't match the smile she had quickly plastered on as she reached her hand across the table to place it atop Sherlock's.

"My life has been a string of failed marriages ever since, but it appears to have worked out for him."

"How so?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, he has you."

"Oh, right. He still doesn't have children, or a home in the country; he barely even gets to practice medicine anymore."

All the doubts Sherlock felt about his relationship with John began to creep in.

"Those are the things he wanted 20 years ago; people change; his injury changed him, and sometimes the things people think they want aren't really what they need."

She had finally removed her hand, and leaned back in her chair to laugh a little. Sherlock looked up at her, confused and also amused by her mood change.

"He also wasn't gay 20 years ago. I don't think at least; although had he been I might have felt a little better about it not working out."

"He still isn't." Sherlock told her.

"He isn't what?"

"Gay."

"Oh, was I mistaken to assume that you aren't a man? You don't appear to be missing any of the important bits." She blushed, "Not that I was looking of course."

And Sherlock laughed; this woman he had met only hours ago, a stranger he would normally find so tedious, the ex-wife of the love of his life managed to make him laugh.

"If you were to ask John he would tell you that he isn't gay; that I am the only man he ever has and ever will be attracted to; will be in love with; I'm his exception."

The remembrance of that made Sherlock's stomach tense and his body ache. Their love for each other was an exception to both of them; John loving another man and Sherlock loving anyone. If Sherlock were to believe in soul mates, which he most certainly did not, he would categorize John as his and he as John's. The way they had fallen into each others lives, the way they fit so perfectly in the empty spaces that the past had left them both with; they had been made for each other; their hearts just waiting to be found out.

Sherlock pushed his nearly empty bowl and plate away from him and stood; running his hands down the front of his thigh to straighten the fabric of his trousers.

"I should be going."

"Right. Thank you for staying to talk with me; I know it's not really your thing."

"No, it's really not, but it was-it was," _Good, pleasant, needed? _He settled on 'fine.'

"Good. Look, I invited John out for drinks tonight; I would like it if you came with."

"Yes, I'll think about it."

Sherlock left the cafe and made the walk back to the Watson's.

When he returned to the modest home that was nestled in a thicket of trees and bushes just off a dusty dirt road he opened the front door with his usual confidence. He was sure John had told Harry what happened, likely he had told his brother as well, but Sherlock didn't want to seem affected by it; though he knew that they would know he had been given the fact that he had left.

The family was sitting on the floor of the living room gathered around a Cluedo board, the radio softly playing a Top 40 station. John wasn't participating in the game or the conversation. He was sitting in a recliner near the back of the room, a book in his hands, but his eyes didn't look like he had been reading it. When Sherlock came inside, John threw the book down toward the table, but missed letting it hit the floor instead. He pushed up from the chair and quickly made his way toward Sherlock. Sherlock was aware that the family had stopped playing and was now paying attention to the two of them. He grabbed John's hand as he reached him and pulled him into the adjacent den.

"You've been gone for hours." John said, running his hands over Sherlock, instinctively looking for signs of any injury he might have sustained while gone.

"Sorry."

"No Sherlock, I'm sorry. I should have told you about Claire."

John had finished his inspection, and stepped away to give Sherlock some space.

"Why didn't you?"

"You hadn't worked it out, and it wasn't something I went around advertising, and when we were just flat-mates it didn't seem that important for you to know."

"And when we were more?"

"I don't know; I just didn't want to tell you."

"Did you think I would be upset; disappointed in you?"

John shrugged his shoulders, all he could manage to do was to apologize again.

"I'm sorry. Would you like to know about her now?"

"I already do, thank you."

"You what? Is that what you were doing; looking for her?"

"No. I ran into her; we talked. She invited me to drinks tonight."

"Will you come?"

"Maybe."

John invaded Sherlock's space and took his hand into his own, "I would like it if you did. Besides, I can't very well leave you here to play Cluedo with my family."

"Of course you can."

John laughed, "No, I can't put them through that. Come and have a social experience with me."

"I hate social experiences."

"I know you do." He pressed up on his toes to kiss Sherlock's cheek.

"Fine, I will go with you."

"Thank you."

Sherlock picked at the roast beef and whole red potatoes on his plate during dinner trying to ignore the disapproving glances from Mrs. Watson. She had spent the whole evening in the kitchen preparing the meal. Sherlock's brain was able to appreciate that, but his stomach was not. The two days that they had been there already were filled with breakfast pastries, bacon, cold salads and finger sandwiches. He had eaten at them heartily, because he knew it would disappoint John if he did not, and the rest of the week was ahead of him with the promise of a rehearsal dinner, a three course meal at the wedding and an assortment of sugary cupcakes, not to mention the wine he would un-doubtly drink tonight; it was more than he could fathom. He put a few bites into his mouth and was more than grateful when John snuck a large piece of the roast beef onto his own plate; there was not any moment or any situation in which John would not take care of Sherlock. Not that he actually _needed _to be taken care of; Sherlock was very capable of keeping himself alive, of making sure he was efficient enough for his job. Of course there had been times in his youth where he could have used some help, but that was true of everybody. Sherlock didn't _need _John to live, but having him certainty made living more worth while.

When dinner was finished Sherlock and John left, walking the few blocks into town and to a pub tucked neatly behind the butcher shop. Claire was waiting for them at a table near the back, a drink already in her hands; her hair falling down over her shoulders. She and John hugged and Sherlock cautiously sat in one of the chairs. A conversation he had once had with John suddenly slipped out of it's storage box and replayed while he watched John and Claire fall into easy conversation that immediately started in their past.

"_Sherlock, you have no reason to worry about me having drinks with Greg and his nephew."_

"_I've met him; I can't remember his name, but I remember he's good looking."_

_John ran his hands through his hair, "Yes, he is, but he could as beautiful as you, and it wouldn't matter because he wouldn't actually be you; wouldn't have your brain, your idiosyncrasies, your fears and your humor. Besides, if I was to ever leave you, and I can't stress the' if' enough, it would likely be for a woman. I've never found myself attracted to a man other than you."_

"_Really?"_

"_Really. Now stop being so insecure." John pressed his palm against Sherlock's cheek and Sherlock leaned into it, "I love you; only you."_

A loud unmelodiousness string of laughter rang in Sherlock's ears and brought him back into the present moment. He didn't join the conversation (because he had no idea what they were talking about), but he did listen while idly sipping his white wine. Claire and John talked about their wedding; how horrendous it had been, because her parents were unhappy she was marrying the first man to ever give her any real attention. They reminisced about the flat they rented, the Pomeranian they had adopted (and try as he might Sherlock could not imagine John walking a Pomeranian down the sidewalks of London). They laughed obnoxiously at old, private jokes they seemed surprised to remember. At one point Claire's hand reach across the table where John was sitting next to Sherlock and placed her hand lovingly over his; John didn't make a motion for her to remove it. That was the moment in which Sherlock excused himself to the toilet.

It was torture out there. Having to put up with the women John had brought back to the flat while he was still dating were nothing compared to sitting across from the woman whom John had been married to. He didn't have a history with those women; he barely had a present and he certainly never had a future, but he had (or once had) all those things with Claire. He saw, even after all their years apart, how well they must have once fit together. She was kind, but not to a fault, and she was bright; a lengthy education behind her. She was confident in ways that John wasn't, and he was confident in ways that she wasn't; they were each other's missing half that when put together made a functioning whole. Sherlock felt the same anger from earlier rise up in his chest and mix with a bit of sadness; _he _was John's missing half, _he _made John whole...Or did he? Just because John did those things for Sherlock didn't mean Sherlock did those for him.

Sherlock composed himself and left the bathroom. He stopped at the bar to get himself and John each another drink. When he glanced over the table they had been sitting at, it was empty. Sherlock glossed over the rest of the bar. His eyes eventually found John and Claire; on the dancefloor, in each others arms, and lost in some sort of memory.

Sherlock paid for the drinks, walked them over to the table; set them down.

And for the second time that night; for the second time they had known each other, he walked out on John.


	3. Chapter 3

The front door of the house opened and shut sometime after midnight; Sherlock listened for the footsteps across the hardwood floors, and against the padded wood of the back staircase. Having not sent or received a text the entire night, Sherlock didn't expect for John stop in on his way to bed, but when he heard the footsteps stop outside and saw John in the doorway, he had to concede that his assumption was wrong.

"Have a nice night?" John asked, closing the door behind him and stepping into his old bedroom.

Sherlock plastered his best smug smile across his mouth and nodded, "Yes; your father and I discussed the new grade classification of cancerous tumors."

"How exciting."

"It was. How was the rest of your night?"

"Oh, you mean after my wanker of a boyfriend left me at the pub, and I had to explain to Claire that you actually aren't a wanker, even though you clearly are?" John took a slight pause, "It was lovely, thank you."

"Glad to hear it."

John laughed; a short, hard laugh that said to Sherlock that he was more angry than he was amused.

"No you're not."

And then John sighed and sat down on the small space left on the side of the bed.

"It wasn't fair for us to be going on like that in front of you; we just sort of got lost in the past I guess. I'm sorry Sherlock, but sometimes you forget, and I forget too, that I did have a life before I met you; a life that I was relatively pleased with for the most part."

Sherlock knew John didn't mean what he said in a malicious way, but it still hurt, because while Sherlock had also had a life before John, he hadn't been relatively please with it; in fact he regarded his life before John as non-existent, because none of it mattered until the day John came into St. Bart's.

"Why didn't you put a shirt on this morning when she came over?

"Well, she came in before I had a chance to, and by then it didn't seem to matter I suppose. And she's seen it before."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Before I went to London after my discharge I came home for a few weeks until I could figure out what I wanted to do. I spent most of that time at Claire's; sleeping on her sofa."

"Did she ask to see it or was it an accident?"

"She asked. Sherlock, what does it matter?"

"I guess it doesn't really."

Sherlock looked at John for what felt like forever before he decided to speak again.

"Do you want to be married?"

"What?"

"Is marriage still a goal for you?"

Sherlock watched John think the question over; watched his eyes dart back and forth between non-important objects in his bedroom as he thought carefully how to answer the question.

"No, it's not." He finally answered.

"Not even if it were me?"

"I hope this isn't your idea of a proposal Sherlock."

"Of course not."

"Oh, good, because it would have been terrible."

John laughed and moved from where he was barely managing to sit so that his body was hovering over Sherlock's; his hands pushed into the mattress on either side of his body, and his knees pressed into the 'V' shape created by his legs.

"The only thing that I want is you; to love you and take care of you, and be with you until the day that I die. And I don't need a blessing or a party or a ring for that to happen; I only need you to accept and to do the same for me."

John steadied himself so that his bottom was now resting against the heels of his feet, and he reached for Sherlock's left hand. He singled out his ring finger, and brought it up to his lips to place a gentle, lingering kiss just where finger met palm.

"I do John. All of that; I accept it all and I promise to do the same for you, because I love you; I absolutely love you."

Sherlock took John's hand and mimicked his action.

"Good then; that's all the marriage I need...Now, take your shirt off.."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked.

"There is absolutely no way I am not going to shag you in my childhood bed."

"And people think you're the romantic one."

Sherlock laughed, but he complied with John's commands. He pulled his shirt up over his head and tossed it somewhere into the near darkness, and felt the warm of the sheets underneath his skin as he lay there looking up to John, in the hovering position he had been in earlier.

"You are so damned beautiful." He whispered against Sherlock's ear. "Not just your face, but every single inch of you."

John pressed light kisses across the bones of Sherlock's cheeks, down his jawline and onto the contour of his chin. Sherlock responded with hitched breath and a slow, aching arch of his neck as John's lips made their way to the sensitive flesh there. He took a small piece of skin roughly in between his teeth for the quickest of moments before releasing it again at Sherlock's moan and kissing away the twinge of pain.

Sherlock lay there, at the mercy of John's worshipping kisses. It was almost as if he was attempting to catalogue Sherlock for the first time; explore the plains and the contours of his body, but what he really was doing was going through his catalogue; there wasn't a place his lips (and his tongue and his teeth, and oh God, his hands too!) weren't touching that John didn't know exactly how Sherlock was going to respond. He was playing Sherlock like a violin to the tune of an old, familiar, and favorite composition.

"_John_."

Sherlock's voice was hardly a whisper as John's hands slid up the length of Sherlock's long, lean legs; the tops of his feet, his calves, his thighs, and the dip of his pelvis. Sherlock's hips instinctively arched off the bed to get closer to John's touch. He was coming undone at this slow, wondrous torture John was subjecting him to, and although his body was screaming for John to just stop and get inside of him already, Sherlock kept quiet, because it was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt, because they often had such a fevered passion for another that the sex was fast, and loud and furious with a want and a desire that they couldn't even think of slowing down to just enjoy the other, to regard them in the way that John was regarding Sherlock now, in the way that Sherlock was, in turn, regarding John; watching him with flickering eyes full of need, carding his fingers through his hair, digging the tips of his nails gently into the muscle of his back. John was beautiful too, Sherlock thought. He was a compact vessel of muscle; even the spots that looked soft and squishy were backed by hard muscle underneath that rippled underneath Sherlock's hands as he followed John's movements. It wasn't just his body, but his face as well. Sherlock traced a nimble finger over the lines that surrounded John's eyes and mouth; the lines that betrayed his age every day.

When Sherlock was positive he wasn't going to be able to take anymore of John's careful exploration he felt him tugging on his arms to be pulled away from the sweat stained sheet. He felt the cool air hit hot back and he shivered which caused John to hug him tightly into his own body as he slid Sherlock into his lap, and then they kissed in the same slow, wondrous fashion everything else had been happening in. They were as close as they could be without one merging into the other and Sherlock started to rock against John, keeping the pace of the night, bur relishing in John finally giving up his his control. They kissed and they rocked, and they moaned and sighed, and they both held on for as long as they possibly could, never wanting the feeling to end until they couldn't hold on anymore, and it was over.

Sherlock collapsed back against the bed, his head hitting the pillows, and John fell on top of him, his head on Sherlock's chest.

"That was nice." Sherlock said through ragged breaths, running a gentle finger along John's neck.

"I hadn't intended it to be. I went into that planning for hot and heavy, and maybe a little bit dirty."

Sherlock laughed, and kissed the top of John's head.

"I think I'm hungry."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Are you?"

John shook his head, "No, but I put aside a plate in the fridge for you, ya know, just in case."

"The ever so thoughtful John Watson."

"Yes, yes."

John pushed himself away from Sherlock and searched the floor for his clothes. He tossed the pieces that belonged to Sherlock at him as he came across them. They both dressed; John less so since he was only going to undress again, and they quickly kissed in the hallway before Sherlock went downstairs and John went down to the office and the couch that waited for him.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stepped down into the kitchen; a stupid smile on his face, his hair a mess, and sheen of sweat still drying against his forehead.

"Sorry, I didn't realize anybody else was up." He said, upon hovering one foot on the bottom stair and getting ready to turn around and go back up to bed upon seeing Alex sitting at the breakfast table.

"I've been up nearly every night this week." He pushed the chair out across from him with his foot. "Stay."

Sherlock really didn't want to stay; one conversation with one person he didn't converse with on a daily basis (otherwise known as someone who wasn't John) had been enough, and he wasn't sure he could handle another one, but his stomach was growling, and he knew that if he didn't eat anything and let the alcohol from earlier eat away at his stomach acid he would likely be vomiting sometime in the very near future, so he opened the fridge and took out the plate John had been talking about, sat down in the offered chair and began to nibble away at the cold roast beef.

"I'm always hungry after a good orgasm too." Alex said when Sherlock was already on his second piece.

Sherlock stopped chewing for a moment and just stared at Alex in strange amusement. In the dim light of the moon coming in from the window next to them Alex looked like John. Earlier in the day his features had been similar to Harry's; Alex seemed to change between his two older siblings.

"Sorry- John and I grew up sharing a very thin wall; I couldn't help but hear before I finally came down here. Accidently listening to him and his girlfriends taught me almost everything I know about pleasing a woman."

"I'm sure John would be glad to know that."

"I don't think I could bring anything from tonight into bed with Julie though." Alex laughed; I'm sorry; just thinking out loud."

"It's fine; I do it often." He said with a small smile.

Silence settled between them and Sherlock was finding that if he didn't look at Alex then he could ignore the fact that he was still sitting there with him.

But soon the silence was broken.

"I haven't been able to sleep lately." Alex started

"Cold feet or whatever that is?"

"The thing is" Alex started, not really paying attention to Sherlock, and looking passed his shoulders into the darkness of the kitchen.

"I was never expected, I wasn't part of their plan, and that always kind of worked out in my favor. Harry and John being who they are worked in my favor too. There was nothing I could do to screw up worse than Harry, and John was already the absolute perfect son that they wanted, so I just did my thing, and never gave a second though to being more settled than I was.

"Then, John got divorced. My parents' pride faltered just a little, but it didn't break. He was still a doctor, still a soldier, still handsome. Then, John got shot- hardly his fault, but he didn't recover the way my parents had hoped he would. He was depressed, he had the limp; he didn't want to go back to work and he couldn't go back to war. He was no longer the great things, the great son he was before."

But John was great. In spite of all those things Alex had just said, because of all those things, Sherlock was certain that he had never met anyone as great, as wonderful, as perfect as John Watson currently was.

"So," Sherlock interrupted, "With John no longer t fulfill their parental need for a perfect son, and Harry being an alcoholic whose homosexual marriage didn't work out, the burden fell on you to pick up all of the pieces."

Alex nodded. Sherlock continued.

"You went to law school, settled down in once place instead of bouncing around from one friend's sofa to another's. You didn't settle in London of course, because that's where John was, ruining what was left of his sad, pathetic life, and then you met Julie, and she was pretty, and smart, and she was kind- she was also the last step in replacing your life with John's previous one."

Alex took a long sip of his glass of orange juice before he returned to the conversation.

"I love Julie. I'm very glad to be marrying her, but I can't help but think that if John's life hadn't taken the course that it did; if things had gone differently for him then perhaps mine would have as well. Whether that would have been better or not, I don't know."

"We never really know where we we are going until we end up there." Sherlock mused, and then took a long drink from his water glass, as if trying to wash the sentiment away off from his tongue.

"You know," Alex started after a moment of quiet, "John taught me everything I know about women; how to bait them, hook them and then eventually let them go, but he never taught me how to love- not until you. And I know that if I can love Julie even the smallest fraction of how much John loves you, then we'll be okay."

"You'll be more than okay if Julie can manage to love you even the smallest fraction of how much I love John."

Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table, stood and made his way back to the bedroom where he had left John earlier. John was asleep, his stomach pressed against the mattress, his limbs sprawled over both sides of the impossibly small bed. Sherlock didn't want to disturb him, but he didn't want to be far from him either, so he laid one of the extra blankets on the floor next to the bed, and laid down on it. He reached his hand up to John's, and fell asleep running his thumb across John's knuckles.

Sherlock could see the edge on John's face; the way his head nodded of to the left as he answered questions, held conversations. The way his smile never quite reached his eyes, never caused the crinkles that Sherlock loved so much in the corners.

"You should wear a tuxedo all the time." Sherlock said through a dangerous smile.

"To crime scenes even?"

"Everywhere except bed."

John laughed, and took the nearly empty wine glass Sherlock was holding in the hand not around John's waist.

"How many of these have you had?"

"Five."

"Maybe that's enough?"

Sherlock took the glass back and finished the last three ships all in one go.

"You said you wanted me to relax and have a good time. It's not my fault of that takes a couple of bottles of wine."

Ahh, there they were; the crinkles, and better that, there was the sparkle in his irises. Sherlock bent his head down and set his lips on John's.

"I love you." He said when he slowly parted them again, smiling the tiniest smile as he watched John's face visibly try to follow his own to bring their lips back together again.

"You know, I think I'm liking this side of you."

"Better than my usual side?"

"Oh God no. Snarky, egotistical, insufferable, rude, lazy Sherlock will always be my favorite."

"I am not lazy. I just don't see the need to exert energy for mundane situations when it could be saved for other useful purposes."

"Like chasing criminals?"

"Like making love to you- over and over again."

"Oh." John kissed Sherlock on the cheek, "Perhaps that can be arranged once dinner is over." He whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"And miss the dancing?"

Sherlock slid his grip down to John's wrist and without warning pushed him away from his body, and pulled him back in just as quickly when the tension from the movement threatened to break them apart.

John laughed when his back bounced against Sherlock's chest, and bent his head back, "We can wait until after the dancing I suppose."

"Thank you John."

"Anything for you Sherlock."

John tipped his head up, nudging Sherlock's chin with his own until Sherlock took the hint and gave John a small kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

Days had gone by, weeks had come to pass, and their lives were returned to Baker Street, and the chaos they had come to accept as normal.

Sherlock shelved the new information he had learned about John, tucked away somewhere he could retrieve if necessary, but wouldn't be remembered on a daily basis. Neither of them mentioned it, and life just went on.

That wasn't to say that Sherlock _didn't _ think about it from time to time. When he least expected it to pop into his mind, there it would be; not so much the painful remembrance of John being someone's husband once, long ago, but the the memory of the night he and John had made promises to one another, and the wonder of whether that really was enough for John. Was it enough for Sherlock?

Luckily, a case had come to distract Sherlock from all of the sentimental rattles in his brain. It started out small; a group of small time drug dealers attempting to make their to the top of the drug trade by way of smuggling. At some point, it escelated into what Sherlock deemed a necessary, if not, accidental murder.

Like more cases than he cared to note, that one led to the eventual kidnapping of John as a lure to bring Sherlock in. Why any criminal ever thought that would accomplish anything was far beyond Sherlock, but he played along anyway; strolling in as the valiant hero there to save his fair Maiden (though Sherlock would of course never compare John to such a thing). It ended the way those things usually ended; a possible head injury for at least one of the pair, and likely head injuries for the kidnappers; tied and waiting to be picked up by the Yarders.

John's head was still a little bit fuzzy; nothing in front of his eyes was really in focus, and he had absolutely no idea which way he was going, but somehow he was the one carrying the torch, lighting what he assumed was a path that would lead them back outside.

"John! John, what are you doing?"

John heard Sherlock's voice ring against the thick walls that surrounded him, but he couldn't see where he was; he swung the light back and forth trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from.

"John!" Sherlock called again.

_Is he laughing? Is he laughing at me?_'John thought, still trying to find the figure in the haze.

He jumped when he felt a heavy hand clasp down on his shoulder. It only took a moment for him to recognize the touch.

"Christ Sherlock, don't do that."

Sherlock took the torch from John and grabbed his hand, "Come on; you're going the wrong way."

He tugged at John, making him keep pace with his own long legs, taking them toward the exit of the tunnel.

"You _are_ laughing at me."

Sherlock bit down on his lip, trying to stop the laughter that was escaping, "No, I'm not; I'm not at all."

"I hit my head on the ceiling arch on the way out of here."

"I know." Sherlock muffled, biting down harder.

"I probably have a concussion."

"I know."

He couldn't hold down any longer without the possibility of drawing blood, so he let go and let his laugh out rather loudly.

"Sherlock, this isn't funny." John said, starting to become angrier at Sherlock than the situation.

"No. You're right; it's not funny at all." He said, clamping his free hand over his mouth.

They had reached the end of the tunnel and had made it out onto the twilight streets of London. Sherlock situated John underneath a street lamp and pressed his fingers against John's forehead, pulling at the skin along his hairline. A dark bruise was starting to form and there was a small streak of blood flowing down his face to his neck.

"I think you're going to live." Sherlock said, pressing a small kiss at the wound, "We'll get you home and clean it up."

John let out an exasperated sigh, and leaned against the cold metal of the street lamp.

"I'm getting a little tired of being kidnapped."

"Really? I find it breaks an otherwise boring week up quite nicely."

"Sherlock."

"Oh, John, it's fine, everything is fine, and besides that wasn't even a proper kidnapping."

John laughed slightly, the tenseness of his nerves starting to give way, "No, it really wasn't, was it?"

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John's wrist and pulled him into his body, closing his arm around John's back. He breathed against his neck while he felt John's chest rise up and down against his.

"Come on, let's go home." He whispered.

John slowly stepped out of his embrace with Sherlock and they stood for a moment while Sherlock got his bearing as to where they were and they started on their way back to Baker Street, John walking a little faster than usual and Sherlock a little slower so that they kept the same pace with one another. When they finally got home, John sat on the couch with no bother to take his coat off; he just wanted to sink into the soft leather and forget the last four hours of their night.

He watched Sherlock hang his coat on the back of the door and disappear through the kitchen for a moment before he came back with a warm cloth and their first aid kit. He sat down on the table and pressed the cloth against John's skin, wiping the drying blood away from his neck first, up past his ear and eventually to the source. He opened one of the smaller Band-Aids and pressed it against John's forehead

"I'm sorry that you hurt your head." Sherlock offered, "And I'm sorry that I laughed at you."

"It's fine." John said, and sank back into the couch.

Sherlock joined him, sitting with his thigh against John's and his hand lazily at John's knee. He fidgeted his fingers against the denim of John's jean a bit.

"What is it Sherlock?" John asked, his eyes closed and head still against the back of the couch.

"I have something that I want to ask you."

"Then ask."

"Right, yes." Sherlock stood. He straightened out his helplessly rumpled and dirt speckled shirt.

John lifted his head, and watched Sherlock with curiosity. It wasn't often, wasn't ever that Sherlock was nervous.

"I know what I've said in the past about marriage, and I still believe that it's a ridiculous , arbitrary ritual, and that if you intend to be with someone for the rest of your life then just be with them instead of making yourself and your entire family go crazy with fashion dilemmas and flower picking, and cake tasting and-"

"Sherlock, get on with it." John interrupted, his curiosity now becoming nervousness deep inside the pit of his stomach as he waited for Sherlock to get to the point.

"Despite all of that, knowing you, and loving you has made me think that maybe there might be some small importance to the state of marriage. So, that all being said, I was just wondering if perhaps you, John Watson, would like to marry me?"

There, he had done it. Sherlock let out a deep breath. He took note of the look on John's face; the impossibly big grin, the shock in his eyes and the pink in his cheeks. He felt himself being tugged downward until he was in John's lap, John's arms around his neck.

"No ring?" John asked.

"I thought that was something we could do together. I do have something equally sentimental and romantic however." Sherlock pulled at John's arms, letting them slide down his chest, "If you'll let me get up."

Sherlock left John in the lounge for a moment, striding his long legs into the kitchen and down the hallway into his bedroom at a quick pace. He was back, in John's lap before John could even go cold. Sherlock took a moment, almost like hesitation before he presented John with a small, brown, leather bound journal.

John took it, and ran his fingers across the aged cover. He opened it up to the first page, and reads aloud the words he found there.

"Data on J.W collected by S.H" he looked up to Sherlock, "Is this a journal about me?"

"Every little detail about you, about what you have meant and do mean to me is in that journal. So, when I forget to tell you that I love you, or when I do something to make you otherwise doubt how deep my care goes for you, you can read this, and you'll remember."

"This is amazing Sherlock; it's wonderful, thank you."

John began to thumb through the journal; Sherlock's handwriting in short burst of deductions; any corrections he needed to make in the margins in a red pen to contrast the black he had been using. There were charts and diagrams that John couldnt even understand; a few sketches of various parts of his body.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"Oh, Sherlock," John dropped the journal next to him on the couch, and brought his hands up to either side of Sherlock's face, smiling softly at him.

"Absolutely I will marry you." He kissed him, quickly, and excitedly before breaking away, "Absolutely."


End file.
